Implied Consent
by pgrabia
Summary: It's a day full of surprises--both good and bad--for Gregory House and James Wilson! Pt 7 of "The Law of House" series based on "Beyond a Reasonable Doubt". H/W slash, relationship estab. WARNING: Strong adult themes,discretion stongly advised. Rated M.


**Implied Consent**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

A/N: This is part seven of "The Law of House" series established on the short story "Beyond a Reasonable Doubt".

Please comment—it makes me very happy!!

**Warning**: H/W slash, relationship established.

**Rated: M** for language, violence and descriptive sexuality. Discretion advised.

* * *

_Def'n of Implied Consent:__ (n) A manifestation of consent to something through conduct, including inaction or silence._

Opening the door to the loft Dr. Gregory House then stepped aside and allowed Dr. James Wilson enter their home first. The diagnostician followed him carrying a plastic bag holding the oncologist's personal items in his left hand and his own cane in the right. He shut the door and then set down the bag to help Wilson remove his jacket and then hung it along with his own. Wilson stepped further in leaving the foyer and entering the living room. He stopped short, gaping in surprise at what he found. House smiled as he followed, knowing in advance what it was his lover was seeing.

The Carrot-puke sofa was no more. In its place was a sleek and sophisticated leather three-seat sofa in a smooth cream color that went well with practically every other piece of furniture Wilson had chosen. House quickly hid his smile when Wilson turned to look at him, mouth still agape.

"Quit looking at me like a baby bird waiting for regurgitated worm," House said, frowning. "Do you like it or not?"

Wilson closed his mouth and nodded, a pleased smile emerging on his face. "It's exactly what I had pictured in my mind that I wanted. How did you know?"

The diagnostician shrugged nonchalantly, moving past his best friend. He dropped onto the sofa in his traditional place near the right arm and elevated his feet on the coffee table, rubbing his aching thigh. "I didn't. I didn't have a clue--that's why I called Bonnie and had her help me pick it out."

At the mention of Wilson's ex-wife the oncologist looked at his lover with renewed amazement.

"But you _hate_ Bonnie," the younger man said, shaking his head, "about as much as you hate shopping!"

"I shop!" House argued, crossing in arms in front of him.

"Porn magazines and potato chips doesn't count," Wilson told him sarcastically.

"If you go to a cashier to pay for something, it's shopping," the older man informed him. "Besides, she wanted this girly beige and persimmon monstrosity that you would have absolutely loved but which would have triggered my gag reflex every time I'd look at it. So I closed my eyes, pointed and turned around a few times before stopping. Whichever sofa I ended up pointing at I bought. Surprise!"

Wilson sat down on the sofa next to him and nodded in approval. "It's comfortable—neither too soft nor too firm."

"Does that mean you want warm porridge for dinner, Goldilocks?" House smirked.

"There's just one problem," Wilson told him, a frown beginning to form on his face. _Uh oh, _House thought. _What did I screw up on now?_ In truth he had spent nearly two hours in the furniture store one evening with Bonnie nattering in his ear the entire time, sweating over which one his lover would choose had he been there instead of in the hospital. He not only wanted the younger man to like it, he wanted him to love it.

"What?"

"The seat is kind of narrow," the oncologist told him. "It's fine for sitting, but not very good for lying on."

"I don't plan on sleeping on the sofa," House informed him. "If we have an argument you can sleep out here."

Wilson grinned, shaking his head. "No. I wasn't thinking about…sleeping."

House looked at him perplexedly and then realized what his lover had been thinking about. His eyebrows arched on his face and he nodded slowly. "Ohh…well, what it lacks in breadth it more than makes up for in length." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Allow me to demonstrate." He slid towards the younger man placed his hands on his forearms, leaning him down. The older man then lifted Wilson's legs up and laid himself on top of his lover carefully so that his bad leg wasn't cramped and most of his weight was supported on his lower arms and left leg. The blue-eyes stared down into brown ones; both sets were gleaming with intense interest.

"See?" the diagnostician said with a suggestive smile. "Lots of leg room and we can both lie on our sides together to watch TV with plenty of room to spare. Am I too heavy for your stitches?"

"No," Wilson murmured, caressing House's bearded cheek lovingly. "You're right, the sofa's perfect. Thank you!"

House brought his face close enough to his partner's so that his lips barely brushed the other man's as he spoke. "I'm _always_ right, _you're_ perfect, and you're welcome." He gently covered the oncologist's mouth with his own, kissing him deeply and leisurely, teasing with his tongue and lips. He felt Wilson bring his other hand up and comb his fingers through the diagnostician's closely cropped graying hair. It was Wilson who asked for permission with his tongue tickling House's upper lip and the other man granted it, parting his mouth and allowing said tongue to enter deeply to tangle, tickle and wrestle with its mate.

The diagnostician groaned from deep in his throat as his desire grew quickly. His heart accelerated as did his breathing. Leaning onto his right arm, he used his left to slip under the hem of Wilson's polo top and move slowly against his abdomen to his chest. The younger man shivered with delight. House's fingers played in the hair that extended from the other man's navel up to a thick patch on his chest. He loved the feel of it between his fingers and brushing across his palm. His hand moved slowly to one of Wilson's nipples and began to trace the areola with a feather-light touch that he knew drove his partner wild.

Moaning accordingly, the oncologist drew his mouth away from the other's and began to leave hot, juicy kisses along House's jawline. The diagnostician was breathing heavily now, hardening against Wilson's growing erection.

"Oh, god, Jimmy!" House breathed. "Let's…let's take this to the bedroom!" Wilson nodded and House carefully slid off of the younger man to the floor and then slowly stood up. He grabbed his lover's hands and helped him to his feet. Immediately their hands were all over each other in a frantic rush to remove each others' clothes as they moved towards their bedroom. House's cane was left abandoned by the sofa, earning help in walking from his lover. He felt the increasing arousal and pressure as his penis twitched aching to be touched; he nearly tore Wilson's shirt off of him and made quick work of removing his undershirt as well. His hands went for the button on the fly of the oncologist's trousers, every so often stopping to rub his erection through the material. Wilson nearly growled and pushed House against the corridor wall, his lips and teeth caressing and then hungrily sucking the crook of the older man's neck; occasionally he would bite the skin lightly as his excitement built. His hands lifted the diagnostician's t-shirt upwards and then he parted from him long enough to lift it over his head, tossing it aside. His mouth found one of House's nipples which he twirled his tongue around and then suckled gently. He heard the older man's breath catch; almost desperately, the older man pushed the younger away and grabbed his arm, pulling him the rest of the way to the bed. Wilson took charge at that point and House was more than happy to submit to him.

The truth was House absolutely loved it when Wilson was aggressive and took control—it didn't happen all that often but when it did it ended up being some of the best sex the diagnostician had ever had. Wilson was on him, his mouth hard on his own, hungry, so very hungry! House lowered the zipper on the oncologist's pants and began to push them downwards towards his knees. They were quickly removed the rest of the way by their owner, as were the boxer shorts. House stared at his lover's throbbing erection and it nearly drove him over the edge.

"Quickly!" House gasped as Wilson pulled his bottoms off as well and then crawled onto him, grinding his erection against the older man's. "I don't think…I don't think…." House panted, a sheen of sweat covering his body. The younger man knew what he meant and brought his mouth down to his lover's erection. House arched his back and his eyes rolled back into his head. One of his hands was buried in Wilson's thick dark brown head of hair, the other grabbing at the duvet beneath him. As he neared climax, the diagnostician groaned and gasped in ecstasy, occasionally crying out verbally culminating in what was a keening cry of 'James!' as he climaxed. Wilson pulled away in time and continued the stroking with his hand as House ejaculated. The older man was actually giggling a little as he fully appreciated his orgasm.

Wilson was nearly going mad with needing to be taken care of. It was wordlessly agreed that he would top the diagnostician, who was already rolling over, taking care of not jarring his leg. The oncologist carefully entered his lover and then gradually with more fervor rocked, holding onto the other's hips for support. House moaned in pleasure and Wilson gasped and moaned and then because to curse. When he came he said something unintelligible, almost sounding like he was crying.

After, House lay with his head on his lover's chest, his arms around his waist. Wilson had an arm wrapped around the older man's shoulder and his other hand stroking his hair gently. The sound of the oncologist's slowing heartbeat was lulling House to sleep. When he awoke again it was because he felt a chill. His lover was sound asleep. Rather than wake him, the diagnostician sleepily pulled the blankets from the edge of the bed over top of himself, snuggled closer to Wilson and went back to sleep.

When he awoke again he was alone on the bed. The light was off, the door closed. House realized that he was lying properly under the bedding, his head on his pillow. The room darkening curtains were drawn over the window. He lifted his head to look at the red LED numbers on his alarm-clock. It read 7:26. It had to be later than that, House decided. He rolled out of bed and walked to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and was nearly blinded by the brightness outside compared to the near black of the bedroom. He closed his eyes instinctively, and then opened them again slower. He felt his pupils constrict as they adjusted to the change in illumination. It definitely meant that it was not seven-thirty-six in the evening. He had slept through the night without being disturbed by any pain in his leg. It hurt now, though. He went to the ensuite and grabbed his bottle of Naproxen, popped one into his mouth and dry-swallowed it down. He put the jar back into the cabinet. After using the toilet and washing his hands he was nearly awake.

Pulling a t-shirt and boxers on, he sleepily hobbled out of the bedroom and down the corridor to the living room to grab his cane where he had left it the night before and then limped to the kitchen, where he heard some movement. He found Wilson, clad in his robe, cooking something on the stove. The coffee pot was brewing and smelled incredible. He padded barefoot across the cool floor to the stove. The oncologist was frying bacon. It, too, smelled wonderful. House leaned in and kissed his lover on the cheek, earning a smile.

"'Morning," he mumbled to the cook. "What are you doing up so early and cooking? You're supposed to be recovering. Go sit down and I'll finish this."

"I am bored out of my mind just sitting or laying around 'recovering'!" Wilson told him, shaking his head. "Leave me alone—I feel fine. If I start to feel tired I'll sit down."

The older man nodded. He knew how much he hated to be babied when he was sick or in pain so he wouldn't hover over the younger man, knowing that he was sensible enough to rest when he needed to. Instead House went to the cabinet and grabbed his favorite mug and then proceeded to pour himself some coffee. He dumped two rounded teaspoons-full of sugar in and then stirred it up well. Black and sweet, just the way he liked it.

"You're going to boost your triglyceride levels that way," Wilson told him knowingly without looking. "Something a man your age should be avoiding."

"Meh," was the response as the diagnostician went to the kitchen table and sat down. The morning paper was already there waiting for him; he knew he was spoiled and loved it. He opened it to the sports section, checking out the hockey stats.

"I was thinking about your old bedroom," Wilson said as he cooked, "about what to do with it now that you're not using it anymore. You were saying that you'd like to convert it to a study and bring your piano over from your apartment to put in there. I think your piano would look better in the living room in front of the large windows. I think there's plenty of room."

"Uh huh," House responded, only half-hearing what his partner was saying.

"Eggs or pancakes, Greg?"

"Pancakes are for Saturdays," the older man told him. "Eggs."

The younger man went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of them, returning to the stove.

"I was thinking of turning it into a guest room," Wilson continued, "or maybe an office. What do you think?"

House frowned, growing annoyed. What the hell did he care what was done with the space? He had a place to sit, eat, sleep and crap…what else did a guy really need? Oh, yes, he needed a place for his vintage album collection, piano and guitars—but that was all.

"Do whatever you want with it," the diagnostician told him, trying not to sound annoyed and failing. "Just no heavy lifting for the next six weeks, doctor's orders. If you need something moved tell me and I'll drag Foreman and Chase over here to do it."

The oncologist smirked, shaking his head. "I'm certain they'll just love that. After all, that's what they spent all that time in med school for—to become furniture movers."

"They'll have something to fall back on if medicine doesn't pan out for them," House quipped; he finished his coffee off and returned to the coffee maker to pour another. "Consider it a public service."

Wilson plated the food, threw a couple of pieces of toast on each and brought them to the table. Before sitting down he went to the fridge, grabbed jam and ketchup, setting them down in front of House, who moved his newspaper over just enough for everything to fit. They ate in silence for a while. As usual House wolfed down his food quickly and then stole a piece of bacon from his lover's plate when Wilson wasn't looking.

"You didn't receive any calls from the hospital overnight so your patient must be still stable," the oncologist commented.

"Either that or she's dead, and my team is too afraid to call me to tell me that they screwed up," House agreed, looking up from his paper. He looked at the younger man's face and saw the slight drawing of his thick eyebrows together which indicated a frustrated Wilson. House closed the newspaper and put it away. "She's responding to treatment but I have a feeling that's not going to last for long. It could prove to be at least a little interesting. I hope." He gave his partner a serious look. "While I'm gone I want you to take it easy. Don't be an idiot and try to do too much today."

"This idiot is going to catch up on my reading," Wilson assured him, smirking. "You try not to cross Cuddy today. She was a bear again yesterday when she came to visit me. I don't know what's up with her lately. Every morning lately she's cranky. Maybe Rachel's not sleeping well and keeping her up."

"Or she's sexually frustrated," House offered with a smirk.

"She's got Lucas," Wilson argued only to get a look from the older man.

"Exactly," was the diagnostician's come-back only to earn a chuckle from the other man. He rose to his feet and gathered the dishes in one hand, his cane in the other. He took them to the sink without being asked and scraped them into the garberator, then sticking them into the dishwasher. He made quick work of washing the frying pan and utensils used before putting them and any remaining food away into the fridge. He grabbed a cloth and wiped the counter, then turned to return to the table to wipe it. He saw Wilson's mouth agape again. He frowned and wiped the table and then returned the cloth.

"Are you feeling okay, Greg?" the younger man asked him, and House swore it was a sincere question which only made him more annoyed.

"I do know how to use a sink and cloth," the diagnostician snarked. "I just don't like to." He left the kitchen and headed to the bathroom where he showered and got ready to go to work. Lately he'd been making a concerted effort to arrive at work on time, if not a little early. He wasn't certain why. Perhaps it was Wilson rubbing off on him, perhaps it was his small effort to prove himself again to Cuddy, his team and himself. When he was still on the Vicodin and drinking heavily he was often too hungover in the morning to even try getting out of bed before eight-thirty or nine in the morning. Sometimes he'd dodge the morning altogether, especially if he didn't have an active case to work on. That was pre-Recovery, pre-trying to turn his life around, little by little. It was a small thing compared to all the other issues he had to deal with eventually, but as Dr. Nolan, his therapist encouraged him on a regular basis, it was a start.

Once he was showered, combed, trimmed and dressed he gathered his cell phone and pager and was ready to leave. Wilson had been bugging him lately about how it was taking him longer and longer in the morning to get ready, to which the diagnostician had pointed out that at least he didn't blow-dry his hair like a girl. His lover, so used to the taunt already had simply smiled smugly and wagged his head at him. Wilson was already seated in the living room, on his new sofa, with a medical journal in his hand as House went to grab his jacket, helmet and backpack.

"Don't try to do the laundry today," House told the younger man. "I'll do it when I get home. If you feel you have to go for a walk, take the elevator, not the stairs."

"Yes, Dear," Wilson retorted sarcastically but there was a small smile on his lips. "Don't drive like a maniac, hit an icy patch and kill yourself."

"Nag," House said.

"Mother hen," the oncologist replied, his eyes already on a page in the journal.

House smirked and left the loft.

***

His patient crashed around ten that morning. He and his team did everything they could but in the end they lost her. After she was dead her husband came forward and admitted that he had left out of the medical information he had given them that she had had in her family a history of heart problems. House's anger had surfaced and he found himself tearing into the man, calling him every synonym for idiot in the thesaurus and throwing in a few foreign words for effect before a quick look from Thirteen, one that said 'that's enough now shut your pie-hole!', jolted him out of his rant. He stormed out of the ICU unit without an apology and headed directly to his office where he grabbed his IPod off of his desk, sat down in his lounger, closed his eyes and tried to soothe himself.

It was a goddamned waste! That woman should not have died! If he had known about the heart condition he never would have come up with the diagnosis he had and have given her the treatment that led directly to her death. He was sick and tired of patients and their loved ones lying to his team and him, either directly or by omission! He didn't give a damn how or why a person was sick—he wasn't their judge! He needed every scrap of honest, useful information about a patient if he was to diagnose and cure her. Unnecessary death infuriated—and sickened—him. Most people saw the fury because that's what he was comfortable allowing people to see—few ever saw the grief underneath, but it was there.

After about ten minutes had passed by, he was startled by a tapping on his shoulder. He grudgingly opened his eyes only to look up at Lisa Cuddy standing over him. He checked his watch, wondering what had taken her so long. He took a couple of deep breaths before pausing his IPod and removing the ear buds.

"If you're going to fire me do it quickly—you just interrupted Led Zeppelin," he told her sardonically. He really didn't feel like sparring with her just then.

Cuddy shook her head; she appeared surprisingly calm as she moved to the sofa against the wall and sat down. House frowned at her reaction, sitting up straighter and appraising her with his brilliant blue eyes. She looked tired, deflated, like she'd had a very long day and had gone home to find that someone had burgled it. In the past, whenever she had that look, the diagnostician knew that she needed to talk; the problem was he really didn't feel like talking with her or anyone else, for that matter.

"Thirteen and Chase told me what happened," the Dean of Medicine explained. "While I don't approve of you screaming at patient's families, I can understand it. You've been surprisingly controlled lately so I'm letting this go. I smoothed things over with Mr. Leeds."

"I don't give a damn what he thinks, Cuddy," House told her angrily but keeping the volume down. "His wife was unable to tell us anything about prior medical conditions from the start. She had no choice but to trust her husband to tell us about them and for some damned reason he didn't! She died as a result…and he's offended that I yelled at him? He's lucky that's all I did!"

"I know," Cuddy agreed with a weak smile. She rose to her feet, "Well I just stopped by to tell you that I'm not going to fire you."

"That's not all you came to do," the diagnostician told her, shaking his head. She was being decent to him, the least he could do was listen to her. "Sit down and tell me what's wrong."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Yup," he told her straight-faced, "but only to those who know you well enough. What's wrong?"

The Dean of Medicine sat down with a sigh and was quiet for a minute or two as she gathered her thoughts. House waited patiently because he knew if she was taking this long to come out with it, it had to be something big. Despite their differences and everything that had happened over the past year he still cared about her, he just didn't believe in broadcasting the fact.

"I'm pregnant," she announced, looking less than elated. House was stunned for a moment before a genuine smile crossed his mouth. After trying so hard to get pregnant and failing then getting pregnant and miscarrying and ending up adopting Rachel here she was, finally carrying her own child. He was genuinely happy for her, but he couldn't help but notice that he was the only one smiling.

"Congratulations, Cuddy!" he told her quietly. "Lucas must be thrilled."

She shrugged. "He doesn't know."

House's smile faded and his eyebrows arched. "Ah. So…why not? You know he likes kids…he's good with Rachel."

Sighing heavily she sat back in the sofa resting her head against the back. "It's not that. He loves kids and he would be thrilled."

"So why aren't you?" the diagnostician asked, without any sarcasm or bitterness. "This is what you've wanted for a long time, isn't it--a stable, committed relationship with a man who loves you, a child and another on the way, all with a successful career?"

She frowned, shrugging; her blue-grey eyes looked sad. House didn't like seeing her this way; she appeared disappointed, almost defeated. This was not the Lisa Cuddy he knew and loved…yes, loved. He was no longer _in_ love with her but they had known each other for too long and had been through too much together for him not to care for her. Part of that affection came out as banter.

"I lied to you the other day," Cuddy admitted, thin-lipped, struggling, it appeared, to remain impassive. "Things aren't so great between Lucas and I. He's rarely around anymore. He's always got some case he's working on, some out of town job, a late-night surveillance to do. When he is home all he wants to do is have sex and interrogate me about my actions when he's not around and my feelings for…you. I keep telling him that you will always be important to me…we're friends, but that's it. I'm sorry if I wasn't supposed to, but I even told him that you and Wilson were a couple, hoping that it would be enough to convince him, but he didn't buy it. He's becoming very suspicious and controlling. Sometimes…." She allowed her voice to trail off, having more to say but reluctant to say it.

As she was telling him this House found himself becoming more and more concerned and angry. How dare that jerk treat her that way—he was damned lucky to have the love of a woman like Lisa! He didn't deserve her! Now the diagnostician understood why she was less than thrilled to be pregnant with the rat's kid! He bit his tongue; ranting about Lucas would only make things worse for her.

"Controlling how?" he demanded. "What is he doing?"

The Dean of Medicine shifted uncomfortably in her seat, frowning worriedly. She was having more difficulty than ever opening up, but House had no intention of letting the subject drop. He felt a knot of tension form in his stomach and had to consciously force himself to keep his hands from clenching.

"Lisa," he repeated deeply, his voice almost as soft as a whisper, "_how_?"

She began to wring her hands. "He's been following me, taking pictures, hacking into my computer to check my schedule. I know because I found a photograph in his underwear drawer when I was putting laundry away. It was a picture taken of me about three weeks ago having lunch with you and Wilson in the hospital cafeteria. I found a fragment of a print-off of my daily schedule floating in the toilet after he had left on one of his surveillance jobs. Also, he's been insisting that every time I fill my car with gas that I write down the odometer reading on the receipt so he can figure out my gas mileage for me—except that I couldn't care less."

"Are you doing it?" House asked, finding it hard not to start cursing. He gripped the arms of his lounger tightly. "Tell me you're not doing it!"

Cuddy avoided his gaze and gave him a tiny shrug which told him that she was.

House sighed in exasperation, "Damnit! Stop doing that! He's tracking your movements to see if what you tell him you're doing matches with how far you've driven."

Nodding almost sheepishly she added in a small voice, "I caught him yesterday copying out the transactions I've entered into my checkbook and looking through my wallet."

"And what did he say when you confronted him about it?"

Again Cuddy failed to answer his question, looking frightened. It was more than House could tolerate. He rose from his chair and marched over to his desk; pulling out a Rolodex of business cards from a drawer and began to rifle through them—just because he had put them into the contraption didn't mean that he had done so in any kind of organized way.

Cuddy rose and followed him to the desk. "What are you doing, House?" she asked a little nervously.

Finding what he wanted, the diagnostician pulled out a card and held it out to her. Cuddy took it and looked at it curiously as House dropped the Rolodex unceremoniously back into the drawer and slammed it shut with the force of his anger. She jumped at the sound.

"This is a card for an abuse counselor," the Dean of Medicine said, looking confusedly at him. "What do you want me to do with this?"

House took a deep breath. "I know you won't believe me if I tell you that Lucas has been psychologically abusing you so you can call that number and ask an expert directly. Cuddy, what he's doing is not only an invasion of your privacy, it's abusive. Controlling your actions, your movements, spying on the money you spend and the people you associate with, accusing you of doing things you aren't and then calling you a liar by not believing you when you do tell him, neglecting you and then making you feel like little more than a sex object…it's classic emotional and psychological abuse—but don't take my word for it! Call that number and find out for yourself--then kick him to the curb before he becomes physically dangerous, too!"

House watched her reaction to what he was saying as he was saying it. At first she looked indignant, then doubtful followed by shocked and finally she looked like she had an epiphany. She turned away from the diagnostician and he noticed that her body began to tremble slightly and then increase in intensity. She wasn't crying…she was….

House gently took her arm and turned her around to face him, frowning. The look on her face told him everything.

"He _has_ physically hurt you!" he concluded with certainty. His eyes began to scan her body, that which wasn't covered, for evidence of bruising or abrasions. There were none visible. "How, Lisa? Where?" When she wouldn't meet his gaze or answer he repeated more emphatically, "_How_?"

Cuddy finally looked at him and stammered, "H-he twisted my arm, hurt my shoulder a little. It's no big deal—we were struggling over my Blackberry—it was an accident—."

"Like hell it was!" House yelled, his eyes blazing. "Which arm?"

"House," she began to protest but the diagnostician wasn't listening.

"_Which arm_?"

"My right," Cuddy finally answered her voice no more than a whisper.

"Take your blouse off," the diagnostician told her curtly, "and don't argue! I know you have a camisole on underneath." He waited impatiently as she submitted to his demand, unbuttoning her top and then slipping her right arm out of the sleeve gingerly. House didn't miss the flinch she made as she did it and once her upper arm and shoulder were exposed he could see why. Her shoulder joint was quite swollen and bruised. It hadn't been dislocated, however. On her upper arm where her sleeve had been covering were two large purple contusions. "I thought you said he just twisted your arm?" he asked her harshly; he wasn't intending on sounding cruel, he was just very upset and angry. "That looks like you've been punched a couple of times. If I were to give you a full examination, would I find other injuries?"

"It's just my arm," she told him, her eyes meeting his now. He could tell that she was telling him the truth.

House very gently began to palpate around her shoulder joint, feeling for any indication of tears in the muscles, tendons and ligaments. She winced twice and each time the diagnostician pulled his hand back and murmured a simple 'sorry'.

"You can put your blouse back on," he told the Dean of Medicine, quietly. "I'm not convinced there isn't muscle damage. We need to get your shoulder X-Rayed to be sure."

Cuddy shook her head as she did up the last two buttons. "Impossible," she told him. "I don't have time. I have a conference call in…." She checked her watch. "In five minutes! Damn! I have to go!"

House grabbed her uninjured arm and gently stopped her. "Cancel it or postpone it. I don't like that swelling. You need to have it taken care of now. When did it happen? Last night?"

"No, this morning before I left for work," she told him, rubbing it much the same way he often rubbed his thigh.

For the amount of swelling and bruising she was exhibiting he was more determined than ever for her to get her arm examined properly and treated. After that was done House intended on following her home and waiting for the louse to show up so he could pummel his fat head in with his cane. In a twisted way he was actually glad Lucas had screwed up and showed his true colors by harming her—now she would see firsthand what he was capable of and dump the loser.

After refusing to accept any of her objections Cuddy tried to pull the 'I'm your boss' card on House, to which he said that when it came to actual medicine he was a superior doctor to her and that overruled her. He also said that he would pick her up kicking and screaming and take her to the ER if she didn't go willingly. The diagnostician wasn't certain whether or not he was actually capable of doing that with his bum leg but he was certainly willing to try. After that, the Dean of Medicine finally gave in. She made two calls from House's phone to reschedule the Conference call and then walked with him down to the ER to be officially admitted for treatment before going to Radiology for the X-Ray. When Cuddy wasn't aware of it House told the attending ER physician that her injuries were from domestic abuse and to keep it quiet. The ER doctor agreed and then made a private phone call to the police.

***

It was around eight before Gregory House arrived back at the loft. Wilson was in the kitchen and heard him come in. He went to greet him.

"What happened to you?" the oncologist asked him after one look at him. "Let me guess—you did something to piss Cuddy off and she towed your ass into the Clinic to begin to work off the extra hours she gave you as punishment."

House looked at his lover, glad to see him after the day he'd had. He tiredly set down his helmet and backpack, leaned his cane against the wall and removed his jacket. He hung it up with a small groan and then took his cane and headed directly for the bedroom. When he got there the diagnostician climbed onto the bed and laid there flat on his back, the very image of exhaustion. Wilson followed him in there and sat on the edge looking at him.

"What happened?" the oncologist asked, frowning now.

House sighed and only his eyes moved to look at him. "My patient croaked. Her damned idiot husband failed to tell me about her chronic heart condition until after the treatment I prescribed killed her."

Wilson cursed under his breath and then crawled onto the bed. He lay on his side, supported by his elbow, facing the diagnostician. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said simply. There wasn't much one could say in that situation. Patients died and as a doctor you learned to accept that and move on, but when a patient died because of something unnecessary like the woman House had been treating, there were no words in the English language to describe the sick sense of waste and disgust one felt.

"You could only work with the information you were given, though," the oncologist added. "It's not your fault, if that helps at all."

"It doesn't," House told him as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "But that's not all."

"There's more?"

The older man nodded, opening his eyes again. They were tired and slightly bloodshot. He felt almost too tired to talk but Wilson deserved to know both as his confidant and as Cuddy's good friend. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing the oxygen he took in to reenergize him a little.

"I end up blowing up at the moron and then stormed to my office to cool down. That's when Cuddy showed up, but she didn't read me the riot act like I thought she was going to. She came to unload, and I have her permission tell you about it."

Wilson frowned with concern. "Is it serious? Is she okay?"

"Yes and no," House told him. "First of all, she told me that she's pregnant."

A low whistle escaped the younger man's mouth and a smile emerged. "Good for her! She must be so excited!"

"Not as much as you would expect," the diagnostician told him and then proceeded to tell his lover about her confession of what Lucas was doing and her fears, the injury she received (which turned out to be a small tear in her deltoid muscle which didn't require surgery to repair but would heal as a small amount of scar tissue) the report to the police, and the two hours of questioning by the police before she could go home. "She was afraid to go home alone in case Lucas was there before the police arrived," House told his partner. "So I followed her home on my bike and sat with her and Rachel until Lucas arrived home. You can imagine how thrilled he was to see me there."

"About as thrilled as you were to see him," Wilson said with a wry smirk. "Did you hit him?"

House squinted suspiciously. "No."

"Damnit!" Wilson replied, shaking his head. "_I_ would have!"

House had no doubt of that; Wilson wasn't a fighter, but when he was pushed too far, when someone he cared about was treated badly or hurt he had quite the combustible temper.

"However," the diagnostician added, with a hint of a sly smile on his lips and in his eyes, "When he tried to take a swing at me I speared him with my cane and when he was rolling on the floor I accidentally tripped and kicked him in the nuts. You know how clumsy we cripples are."

The oncologist was laughing now. "Yes, you have a terrible time with your feet and that cane with obstacles on the floor!"

House was grinning now, but it soon faded as he continued the story. "The police finally arrived and carried his sorry carcass to jail before I could trip again. Once he was gone, Cuddy finally fell apart." The older man stopped talking and closed his eyes. The details no one needed to know. He had been afraid to leave her alone but knew he couldn't stay there with her all night. So he'd called her sister and waited with the Dean of Medicine until she arrived to be there with her. He'd left his number with the sister with instructions to call should they need anything before heading home. He was very worried about Cuddy; she was taking it harder than he ever would have expected, which only made him more eager to murder the weasel Lucas Douglas—but of course, that wasn't going to happen.

He felt his lover snuggled up close to him and put a comforting arm around him, gently stroking his hair; the diagnostician loved to have his hair stroked. It felt so good to come home and know that there was someone there who loved him and would comfort him this way; he had gone most of his life without that calming assurance, that simple affection. He smiled.

"Well I am going to warm you up something to eat," Wilson told him after a little while, drawing away and rising from the bed.

"No," House told him. "I can do that. You go--."

"Don't say it!" the oncologist warned him, cutting him off. "I've been on my ass or sleeping most of the day and I need to walk around and do something. Have a shower or a bath, relax a while and I'll go get you some food when you're done."

House knew that he should argue but was too tired. He smiled gratefully and nodded. Wilson left the bedroom and the diagnostician dragged himself out of bed, limping to the bathroom. His leg hurt and a bath was tempting but he was hungry too. A shower was quicker—he could take a bath later and convince Wilson to join him. After his shower he threw on a comfortable pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and then headed for the kitchen. Along the way he noticed that the door to the extra bedroom was open and the light was on. It was extremely unusual for Wilson to leave it that way. He went to turn the light off and stopped in the doorway, staring with astonishment into the room.

The bed had been made up with a brand new comforter set which was sports themed, the pattern being various different kinds of equipment from different types of sports. A rugged-looking Teddy bear wearing a baseball hat and jersey with a bat in its hand rested against the pillows. On the walls were posters of sports giants, banners of various kinds. The curtains had been changed and matched the bedding. In the corner was a large red tub with various kinds of toys that a young boy would love. A lamp the shape of a football adorned the night table next to the bed and a photo-sensitive nightlight with a cover that looked like an old-style collector baseball card was plugged into the wall with the other electrical outlets covered with plastic safety plugs. A shorter bookcase stood against one of the walls filled with age-appropriate books.

House limped inside, turning a circle and looking around. A smile was tugging on his mouth. He hadn't talked with Wilson about Kenny after seeing Cuddy the day before yesterday—the oncologist had been asleep—and it had slipped his mind since…. The diagnostician sat on the end of the bed and shook his head. The smile had completely emerged now. Suddenly his day didn't seem so rotten.

"Your food's ready," Wilson said from where he leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed in front of his chest and a crooked smile on his face. He looked knowingly at his lover. "Come eat before it cools off again."

Before the older man could say anything, the younger one was gone. As he stood up with his cane and was about to head for the kitchen he saw a slip of paper lying on top of the chest of drawers. There was writing on it. He picked it up and read it.

G,

Called a Mrs. Talbot at CPS this morning. She's coming by tomorrow morning around nine. Hope you like the room…Thirteen helped me pick it out and decorate it when she was supposed to be in the lab…oops! My bad!

XOXO,

J.

House grinned; he folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket, and left the room, turning off the light and shutting the door behind him.


End file.
